I Feel The Cold Wind's Northern Bite

I feel the cold wind's northern bite
take part of me in one sharp pull
and scatter its mouthy prize onto your sandy rill.

I watch the slow, withdrawing tide
drag its catch mournfully back
into a squall.

Along this foreshore
remnants of sea-wrack
bob in the shivering pools.

I look towards the tide's expanse and
fashion my mind to your grim limits.
Latvia, your sadness fills me now.

Four times you sang your freedom.
Twice the eastern storms
snatched the sounds from your throat.

Gales from the west shattered your songs too-
jack-booted Germany trampled you down
to its shrilling military squawk.

You were silenced in these storms.
Your voice survived: endurance,
not strength.

M&;#257;linka L&;#257;tvija,
little Latvia,
now you sing your freedom again.

A petrel flies against dark skies,
a flash of grey across my mind-
deep scores dug into the sand.

The gannets on the beaches
keen with long, low cries.
The waters darken.